I would make this title deep but tbh I can't think of one
by Crazycatscarmen
Summary: XD Why did I ever bother with serious titles? This is basically a what if story. What if Stanford Pines had torn and burned the offending pages from his journals instead of send them away to poor hiding places in the midst of delirium? What if I actually make sense for once? Idk about the last question, but this is also starring: Stanley Pines! Anyway, don't die!


**Hey. Hi. Have some angst? Tw: For blood, not super descriptive but like I have a vivid imagination so it doesn't take much? Probably more descriptive than usual. ALSO BILL CIPHER. HEY I'M GONNA BORROW CIPHER TO TORTURE FORD. JUST SO YOU ALL KNOW.**

 **FREAKIN' HATE THAT GUY AHHHHH. Takes place precanon (like most my stuff :P Why am I explaining this) while Ford be goin' cuckoo. Also I'm kinda making it seem like Ford is nearsighted?**

* * *

"Can'tsleepcan'tsleepcan'tsleep-"

Stanford paced in circles, his heavy footsteps falling with soft thuds onto the carpet. His incessant mantra ever present on his tongue. It was growing colder- he must have forgotten to pay his heating bill. He shakily lit foul smelling candles, candles that reminded Ford of _him,_ to light up his house. The fireplace remained empty. Not enough to burn, not enough was burnable. He threw the golden statues, shining with malevolent light, into the pit instead, closing off the small iron doors, hiding them from sight.

He walked around his cabin, scratching runes into the wood as he shivered in his trench coat. He found himself in the kitchen. He stuffed old, almost stale crackers and bread into his mouth to accompany the coffee when he remembered to eat. The days and nights were indecipherable from one another. Windows covered in sheets and blinds pulled down, doors locked. Outside didn't exist. He paced by his desk and noted his very first journal. The golden hand glittered in the candlelight and he flinched from it until he realized-

"Can'tsleep, can't let him have it, can't let anyone-"

Stanford picked the journal up off his desk, placing in the inside of his coat. His chair was gone...where had his chair gone? He knelt at his desk, pushing away stacks of notes until he glanced at an old souvenir. It was a postcard. Why did he have a postcard when he lived in the place it depicted? It didn't matter- but still. He brought a pen out of his pocket and scribbled three words on it, because if someone else took the journal, then it would all be safe. All three together- no, no, this was better. Better to get rid of it. No! No, not get rid of it. Hide it. It was his work- his life's work, he couldn't part with it forever. He had given _everything_ for it. His friend, his family, his sleep, his bro-

Brother. Stanley! Stanley could hide it. Stanley was a crook, Stanley was his brother, Stanley could take it and then it would be safe and he would be safe and the voices would stop-

He jumped up from his position on the floor and rushed to the door, stumbling slightly through the doorways. He forced the card into the outgoing mail box right outside his door, ignoring the frigid air and cold biting at him. He leaned back against the door as he stepped back inside, shutting it with his back. It closed with a low bang and he turned to fumble with the locks before moving away. He needed to not sleep- no sleeping...

...

He had fallen asleep.

Stanford stared at the journal, his mind broken into silence. Cipher wasn't kind to him for his mistake. His arms were torn into by his own hand, his nails filled with his own skin. He had woken with burning sensations all along both arms, and his fingers dripping with blood. On his left hand, the scar on his sixth finger had been reopened, but it didn't have the same scratched off quality like on his arms. Glass littered the ground around him.

He couldn't see. His glasses had been shattered, the shards used to cut into his hand. He fumbled towards the bathroom and he clung to the edge of the sink as he flipped on the facet. His hands shook unsteadily as he ran them and his arms under warm water. At least that hadn't been shut off yet. The water ran red. He looked away. Biting his tongue, he picked up a bottle of peroxide, the alcohol inside sloshing around as he brought it over his arm.

His hand only shook harder as the stinging pain shot up his arm, and tears pricked at his eyes. He could barely see now, his reflection in the mirror in front of him a blurred vision in his eyes. He slowly ran his arms under the water again and reached over for the bandages. He carefully wrapped his arms, unraveling it as his shaking hands made the wrap uneven. He was so, so tired. No amount of sleep could fix it. His whole _being_ was begging for respite.

The mantra came back to him, the stress he put on those very important words seemingly doubled.

" _Can'tsleepcan'tsleepcan'tsleep-"_

...

He stared at the open pages of his journal. They were of the portal. He saw how the outline gave shape to a triangle and he shuddered. He glanced at his arms and then back to the page, his tired mind whirring. He thought about the pain, about the pain of the past and the pain of the present and he growled, ripping out the page violently, holding it above the candle on his desk. He watched it burn with dull eyes.

"Cursed. Cursed project."

He let the ashes fall to his desk and was about to leave when he realized- Pages burned. Arms were scratched, skin scratched away, pages burned-

He hastily picked up the journal, flipping through it as fast as his shaking hands allowed. He shivered as he flipped to the pages of, of _him._ He took the pages in his hand and _pulled,_ ripping them away. He grimaced as he heard the grating screams of his enemy echo in his mind. He held them over the flame and sighed as they too burned away.

Finally. He glanced at the torn journal and picked up a pen and began sketching, writing hasty warnings in the margins. He held the candle closer. Everything was blurred without his glasses. He swallowed as _his_ eye stared up at him from the page and he quickly scratched it out. He closed the book and stored it out of sight.

"Can'ttrust, trustnoone, no one-"

Jumping up, he ran towards the basement, his heart racing. The journal was safe...the journal was safe! He needed to- to get to the portal-

...

He unlatched the door, adrenaline making the shaking in his arms and hands worse as he picked up a crossbow. Swinging open the door, he lunged out, crossbow first at the trespasser.

"Have you come to steal my eyes!?" He yelled out. No one should be here. No one-

"Well you sure know how to give a warm welcome."

Stanford blinked. He through the crossbow to the side and lunged once more, grabbing the man by the front of his jacket, pulling him inside. In one swift movement, he pulled out a flashlight from his right coat pocket and clicked it on in the man's eyes.

"Ow! Whoa, hey, what gives!?"

Stanford shook as he dropped his flashlight back into his pocket.

It was Stanley. But why...? His head ached as he recalled his foolish plan to have his brother take his journal- his life's work halfway across the world. Why did he, that's ridiculous- and now-

"Uh...Ford? You okay?" Stanley reached out a hand to drop it on his shoulder. Ford flinched, glancing up into Stan's eyes. Stan's brow furrowed in- in concern. Ford took a moment to comprehend it properly.

Stanley was here. Stanley was concerned. Ford shuddered at the realization. He couldn't- this wasn't happening.

"Whoa, c'mon, Ford say something. I mean like, other than me stealing eyes. Kidney's, maybe. But eyes?" Stan muttered the last part to himself, but Ford heard him just fine.

Ford wasn't sure how to respond. He opened his mouth to say something but the only thing that he could say was the same thing he had been saying.

"I can't sleep. Stanley! I can't sleep-" Ford repeated his mantra to Stan the same way he had been to himself and he felt them move away from the door. Which suited Ford just fine. Outside wasn't safe. He squinted at the blurs around him. Where had his glasses gone? How had he even made it to the door without them? He shivered where he sat- sat? He was sitting now which was fine- that was...no! No, no sleeping!

"NO!" He reached towards the floor and struggled as hands kept him from falling away. "I can't _sleep!"_

"Ford! C'mon, just sit down! You're legs are shakin- stop struggling! I'm not hurting you!"

Ford couldn't see properly- everything was too far away. He swallowed, curling in on himself as his back hit the wall.

"I _can't sleep._ "

Ford relaxed only slightly when he was left alone and silence returned. His breathing evened out and he forced his legs beneath him as he used the wall to push him back onto his feet.

"Okay..." Ford heard Stan speak softly. "So I guess you aren't gonna rest."

Ford shook his head vigorously. "Can't sleep." He started pacing in place, doing his best to not run into the red and brown blurs. Red- that was Stanley. Stanley was standing a few feet away.

"Ford?"

"Hmm?"

"Where are you're glasses?"

"Bill broke them." Ford muttered. "It hurt."

Ford watched at the red blur got lower to the ground and sat down. Ford scrubbed at his eyes. "Stanley, I can't sleep and it _hurts._ " Ford stopped pacing and leaned his head against the wall. His arms itched and ached and his head pounded with a constant headache. He fought to keep his eyes open.

Stanley wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be here either. No one was _supposed_ to be here. Fiddleford wasn't here, which was good, and bad because Ford needed a friend, someone he could trust and-

He could trust Stanley, couldn't he?

Couldn't he?

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 **Okay So I kinda ran outta juice halfway through this-**

 **Stan: Yeah, no kiddin'. Why am I barely noticeable!?**

 **Ford: It's in my perspective Stanley and I don't have my glasses.**

 **Stan: Where are your spare glasses then!? I NEED TO SHINE.**

 **Ford: ...why did I let you get your memories back again?**

 **Stan: I'm pretty sure you had nothing to do with my recovery.**

 **Ford: Okay well that's just low. *turns to you* Please tell him he's a narcissist.**

 **Stan: An amazing one!**

 **Ford: Sure. An amazing narcissist.**

 **Stan: And review so this lazy author will write another chapter!**

 **Me: Hey! That's not nice!**

 **Ford and Stan: Neither are you.**

 **Me: ...true, true.**


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